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TASKER  POLK,  ESQ.. 


DELIVERED    AT    AN    ENTERTAINMENT 


3  GIVEN  BY  THE  YOUNG  LADIES  OF  WARRENTON,  N.  C, 


-FOR    THE    BENEFIT    OF- 


"THE    WARREN    GUARDS." 


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LUDINGTON     &     AVCOCK     PRINTERS     AND     SrAT,CNERS       HENDERSON,    N      C. 


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1863. 

On,  on  we  go  and  hear  the  waves 
Of  Hope '  s  fair  mirage  lake  afar, 

While  war  s  mad  desert  plain  of  graves 
Still  echoes  war's  mad  crash  and  jar. 

1887. 

Long  years  have  passed  away  and  fled, 
And  war 's  wild  bugle  blast  is  still, 

But  mem'ry's  star  shines  o'er  our  dead, 
And  lights  each  battlefield  and  hill. 


g   >    jt^^! 


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pDDI^ESS. 


Ladies  and  Gentlemen  : — I  greet  you  in  the  name  of  "The 
Warren  Guards. ' ' 

When  the  young  ladies,  to  whose  interest  and  energy  this  Enter- 
tainment is  due,  asked  me  to  deliver  an  introductory  address,  I 
very  naturally  enquired,  "What  shall  my  subject  be  ?"  The  reply 
was,  "Choose  your  own  subject."  Left  to  the  guidance  of  my  own 
taste,  and  remembering  that  the  object  of  the  Entertainment  was 
to  aid  our  Military  Company,  my  thoughts  very  naturally  fell  upon 
military  matters,  and  my  mind  instinctively  turned  to  the  time 
when,  six  and  twenty  years  ago,  Warren  bade  her  boys  God  speed 
to  battle  for  the  South,  States'  Rights  and  their  homes.  The  name 
of  the  Company  which  left  Warren  upon  this  mission  of  glory  and 
patriotism  was  "The  Warren  Guards."  The  company  of  to-day 
has  adopted  the  same  name,  and  by  God's  help,  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, will  pursue  the  same  course.  In  view  of  these  facts 
and  considerations,  I  have  chosen  for  my  subject  a  short  history  of 
the  North  and  the  South  and  their  Civil  War,  where,  like  some 
prominent  thread  in  an  unevenly  woven  cloth,  I  can  see  the  name 
of  Carolina  and  Warren  traced  through  the  fabric  of  blood.  The 
subject,  I  admit,  is  old  and  threadbare,  but  never  will  it  be  without 
interest  to  an  honest  Southern  heart — hence,  you  see  that'  I  have 
foitified  myself  behind  the  breastwork  of  your  Southern  love,  and 
have  chosen  a  subject  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  you,  no  matter 
how  poorly  it  is  handled. 

I  was  but  an  infant  when  the  great  Civil  War  hung  its  pall  of 
gloom  and  death  over  our  divided  sections ;  when  brother  met 
brother  and  father  met  son  upon  the  gory  field  of  battle's  realm  ; 
when  our  sunny  southern  sky  rained  the  blood  of  its  best  and 
bravest.     But  even  from  my  childhood's  earliest  days,  nothing  has 


-35 


<3L 


11 


ever  had  so  much  the  power  to  move  me  to  unbounded  enthusiasm 
and  fierce  delight  as  those  stories  of  carnage  and  battle;  and  the 
chord  of  pride,  responsive  in  my  Southern  heart,  never  beats  with  » 

wilder  harmony  than  when  'tis  swept  by  the  historian's  hand  of 
truth  that  renders  praise  so  justly  due  to  our  Southern  Soldiers,  our 
Confederate  Gray.      Bear  with  me  a  little  while  as  I  raise  the  dark  t 

and 'blood-bespattered  curtain  of  the  past,  and  hastily  review  the 
history  of  our  country's  beginning,  its  struggle  against  English 
tyranny,  its  Independence,  its  Union  of  States,  its  Rise,  its  Fall 
and  lastly  its  second  Union  : — "Oh,  God  of*  our  Fathers,  hear  us  ! 
we  suffer  !  let  us  be  free  from  English  tyranny  !"  was  the  whispered 
prayer  which  ascended  from  Southern  homes  and  Northern  firesides. 
The  untenanted  forests  of  the  great  far  West  echoed  the  prayer, 
and  God  in  heaven  heard.  The  Goddess  of  Liberty  and  Indepen- 
dence appeared  in  the  clouded  firmament  of  our  destiny.  In  her 
outstretched  hand  she  held  the  brilliantly  burning  lamp  of  Self- 
Government.  Alike  it  shed  its  rays  o'er  the  hills  of  the  North  and 
upon  the  vales  of  the  South.  Within  the  circle  of  its  light,  upon 
the  gory  fields  of  Revolutionary  fame,  our  forefathers  fought  and 
bled  and  died.    The  God  of  eternal  Right  and  Justice  smiled  down  <. 

upon  their  brave  and  honest  zeal.  Success  was  theirs.  From  the 
lips  of  3,000,000  people  rang  the  joyous  cry  of  freedom.  That  cry 
was  caught  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind  ;  it  was  born,' aloft,  and  its 
whispered  echoes  floated  through  the  domes  of  heaven.  We  were 
a  free  country.  To  God  alone  we  owed  allegiance.  Time  passed. 
Stars  were  added  to  the  galaxy  of  States,  and  composed  a  Union. 
We  were  one  country  with  one  principle,  our  Liberty.  We  were  a 
Union,  united  in  boundaries,  united  in  brotherly  feeling,  united  in 
our  praise  of  good,  true,  honest  and  just  men,  and  united  in  our 
condemnation  of  evil  men — character,  not  party  then,  gave  tone  to 
praise.  In  the  North,  South,  East  and  West,  joy,  peace,  prosper- 
ity and  happiness  ruled  and  reigned.  The  success  of  the  North 
was  the  pride  of  the  South ;  the  prosperity  of  the  South  was  the  joy 
of  the  North,  and  all  was  peace,  quiet  and  contentment.  To  the 
sons  of  the  North  were  wedded  the  daughters  of  the  South  ;  to  the 
daughters  of  the  North,  the  sons  of  the  South,  and  all  was  love  and 
harmony.      But  time  passed  on,  and  differences  arose  between  these  ( 

beloved    sections   of  our   native  land.     Love  for  each  other  gave 


place  to  burning  hatred  ;  and,  in  the  sky  of  nations,  baptized  in 
blood,  appeared  our  Southern  Cross,  our  Confederate  Flag.  To 
the  cause  for  which  it  waved,  and  upon  the  altar  from  which  it 
floated,  the  sunny  South  gave  all  she  had.  Sad  and  bitter  tears 
freely  flowed  ;  brave  men  poured  forth  their  true  heart's  blood  ; 
the  proud  lily  of  the  Southern  heart  was  broken  at  its  stem,  and 
dyed  in  blood  to  the  red  hue  of  the  roses,  and  the  rose  on  the 
southern  cheek  was  paled  by  grief  and  sorrow  to  the  lily's  white- 
ness, and  the  wails  of  widows  and  orphans,  and  the  cries  of  broth- 
erless  sisters  were  heard  and  echoed  through  all  the  homes  of  South- 
land. Such  were  the  scenes,  and  such  the  sounds,  as  heart  clashed 
against  heart  and  State  met  State  in  the  so-called  war  of  Rebellion : 
and  that  war,  my  friends,  has  no  parallel  in  history.  The  record- 
ing pages  of  those  four  cannon-booming  years  arc  printed  in  letters 
of  blood  upon  the  heart  of  time — a  record  that  can  never  fade. 
Than  our  southern  land,  no  country  ever  more  bravely  fought. 
Than  our  southern  flag,  none  was  ever  followed  by  braver  band. 
And  in  this  mighty  struggle  the  flags  of  different  states  were  wav- 
ing, but  none  waved  higher,  more  bravely  or  further  forward  than 
the  flag  that  Carolinians  bore.  "Than  the  blood  that  Warren  Coun- 
ty shed  in  defense  of  that  flag,  none  was  ever  truer,  braver,  purer 
or  nobler.  Oh,  hearts  of  the  South,  hear  me  !  Oh,  my  native 
land,  listen  !  Your  southern  soldiers  have  never  had  their  equals. 
Fame  such  as  they  won  can  never  more  be  won  by  men.  History 
records  no  such  sufferings  as  those  they  endured  ;  history  tells  of  no 
such  hardships  as  those  they  sustained  ;  history  relates  no  such  vic- 
tories as  those  they  won,  and  Time  smiles  with  pleasure  and  pride 
as  it  prints  their  names  upon  the  stainless  pages  of  everlasting 
glory. 

But  a  war  of  such  terrible  force  could  not  last.  The  North  had 
the  army,  the  navy,  the  treasury  and  the  credit  of  the  world  at  its 
back :  the  South  had  naught  but  its  own  brave  heart,  and  that  was 
divided  between  a  sense  of  duty  calling  it  to  the  front  and  the  cry 
of  slave-imperiled  homes  calling  it  back.  'Twas  thus  it  was  as  time 
passed  on  ;  and  the  hireling  eagle  of  Victory  perched  itself  upon 
the  banner  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  the  tattered  flag  of  our 
Sunny  South  was  furled  midst  blood  and  tears.  Oh  !  what  a  sight 
it  must  have  been,  a  sight  to  rend  a  soldier's  heart  and  make  the 


angels  weep  in  heaven,  as  the  sun  on  that  bright  April's  morning  in 
1865  glanced  down  upon  those  scarce  80c o  men,  who,  at  the  com- 
mand of  their  white-haired  chieftain  Lee,  laid  down  their  arms  and 
acknowledged  that  the  cause  for  which  they  had  fought  was  lost, 
and  that  their  blessed  South,  which  they  had  hoped  to  place  among 
the  free,  independent  and  self-ruled  nations  of  the  earth,  must  for- 
ever remain  a/ar/and  not  become  a  whole.  Let  me  paint  you  the 
picture  that  these  surrendering  soldiers  saw  as  the  bloody  hand  of 
time  unrolled  the  panorama  of  the  past :  The  time  is  evening;  the 
scene  is  the  field  of  Appomattox.  Stilled  is  the  musket's  rattle,  and 
hushed  is  the  beat  of  drum.  If  there  be  soldiers  in  my  audience, 
I  beg  them  to  gaze  upon  this  picture — Lee  bowed  down  with  grief, 
Jackson  dead  at  Chancellorsville,  Stewart  dead  at  Yellow  Tavern, 
Johnson  dead  at  Shiloh,  Rhodes  dead  at  Winchester,  Pelham  killed, 
Kamseur  killed,  Pcttigrew  killed,  Pender  killed,  and  the  dead  on 
Malvern  Hill  seeming  to  rise  from  out  their  graves,  and  those  who 
sleep  in  wakeless  death  upon  the  battle  fields  of  Gettysburg,  the  Wil- 
derness, Seven  Pines,  Chancellorsville,  Sharpsburg,  Cold  Harbor, 
Petersburg  and  Richmond  seem  to  pass  in  the  silent  review  of  death, 
while  rugged  Stonewall  Jackson,  with  uplifted  hands  and  prayerful 
heart,  seems  to  stand  guarding  the  camps  of  the  slain-.  Behold  the 
companion  picture  :  The  scene  changes  ;  the  war  is  over  ;  the  battle 
price  is  paid,  and  the  guardian  spirit  of  Peace  smiles  in  the  bleeding 
heavens.  With  breaking  hearts  and  weary  steps,  the  soldiers  re- 
turned to  their  desolate  homes.  The  news  of  the  great  Surrender 
had  reached  the  remotest  parts  of  the  South  ;  and  away  down  yon- 
der in  Georgia  an  old  gray-haired  mother  stood  in  her  cottage  door 
aid  waited  for  her  soldier  son's  return  ;  and  over  there  in  Tennessee, 
by  the  rolling  waters  of  the  beautiful  Cumberland,  a  Father  waited 
for  his  gallant  son ;  and  here  in  Carolina,  each  evening  breeze 
a^  it  kissed  the  cheek  of  heaven,  bore  upon  its  wings  a  loving  sis- 
ter's prayer  of  "God  protect  my  brother  !"  But  the  days  passed 
on,  and  these  beloved  ones  returned  not.  A  week,  a  month,  a  year 
had  passed.  Still  waited  that  old  Georgia  mother,  straining  her 
eager  ears,  to  catch  each  footstep's  sound  ;  when  one  evening,  as  the 
shadows  of  night  were  falling,  steps  were  heard  on  the  pebbled  walk: 
two  voices  were  heard  in  earnest  talk,  "break  the  news  to  her  gen- 
tly ;  remember,  friend,  she's  old  and  weakly,  and — the  end,   who 


knows,  may  come — she  may  sink  'neath  the  blow" — and  the  words 
were  dropped  so  soft,  so  low  that  the  ear  of  evening  itself  scarce 
heard  them.  But  the  old  mother  heard  and  tottered  towards  them  : 
"what  is  it  you  say  ?  what  news  do  you  bring  ?  hold  it  not  back  !  tell 
me  all,  everything  !  what  of  my  boy  ?  Is  it  news  of  him  or  what  ?" 
— and  the  starlight  air  of  evening  seemed  to  echo  the  words  of  her 
darling's  doom  :  "killed  in  the  last  charge  at  Appomatox."  'Twas 
a  fearful,  pitiful,  awful  sight,  as  the  old  mother  stood  with  her  up- 
raised hands  and  her  white  hair  tossed,  swayed  and  tangled  by  the 
breeze  :  She  sunk  with  a  low  gasping  moan  on  her  knees,  and  fell 
forward.  They  raised  her  ;  'twas  an  easy  task  and  light,  for  the 
soul  so  weighted  with  cares  had  taken  its  flight. 

Scenes  such  as  these  occurred  all  over  our  Southern  land,  and 
pictures  such  as  these  hang  on  the  walls  of  memory.  The  bloody 
track  of  war  from  the  Rio  Grande  on  the  South  to  Gettysburg  on 
the  North  is  strewn  with  the  unmarked  and  unlettered  graves  of  our 
unknown  heroes  ;  and  the  bosom  of  old  Virginia  is  seamed  and 
dotted  and  gashed  with  the  trenches  of  our  loved  ones.  Were  I 
allowed  to  epitaph  the  graves  of  these  illustrious  dead,  I  would  rear 
a  monument  in  the  valley  higher  than  the  frowning  Blue  Ridge, 
and  on  it  my  humble  pen  should  write  these  words  : 

Each  southern  hill  is  as  a  vase, 

That's  filled  with  shattered  flowers, 
Torn  from  the  garden  of  our  race, 

These  beautiful  dead  of  ours. 
Buds  of  youth  and  blooms  of  manhood. 

Gathered  by  war's  resistless  hand, 
Left  naught  but  childless  widowhood 

In  our  beautiful  southern  land. 

And  now,  in  conclusion,  I  have  reached  the  period  of  our  second 
union,  wherein  the  destiny  of  our  southern  land  is  joined  once  more 
to  that  of  her  northern  sister  states  ;  and,  right  here,  I  wish  to 
say  that  the  question  is  often  asked,  "does  the  South  still  cherish 
hatred  towards  the  North?"  My  reply  is,  no  !  She  is  too  brave 
and  too  noble  for  that.  The  tears  that  flowed  from  northern  moth- 
ers' eyes,  and  the  tears  that  coursed  the  cheek  of  our  widowed  south- 
ern land  rushed  together  over  a  score  of  years  age,  and  in  one  grand 
and  mighty  stream  washed   out   each   stain   and  each   black   spot  of 


8 


hatred.  Again  we  are  one  country  with  common  and  undivided 
interests  ;  and  should  a  foreign  foe  attack  our  flag,  I  feel  that  I 
have  the  right  to-night  to  pledge  that  the  "Warren  Guards"  of  1887 
would  defend  the  "Stars  and  Stripes"  as  bravely  as  the  "Warren 
Guards"  of  1861  defended  the  "Stars  and  Bars."  No,  there  ic 
feeling  of  hatred  between  the  North  and  South.  Politicians 
strive  to  fan  to  flames  the  old  dead  embers  of  sectionalism,  but  the 
great  masses  of  the  people  are  at  peace  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the 
word.  There  is  nothing  to  divide  us  now.  The  old  dissenting 
questions  have  died,  or,  like  an  Enoch  Arden,  only  return  to  gaze 
through  the  window  of  our  happiness,  and  then  "silently  steal 
away." 


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